Brave Little Soldiers
by Ellie 5192
Summary: Written for Penguin's Challenge No33: Your heart is free, have the courage to follow it Braveheart "She slumped down onto the dock, three days early, and leaned her head against his leg, like it was the most practised thing in the world; like they'd been doing this for years. " End of season 8, usual fair, cabin!fic, S/J, one-shot.


I've been writing so much lately, and none of it was for Sam and Jack. Then, I remembered I still Penguin's to catch up on, and I happened to be listening to the BSG soundtrack. So I got inspired. Still getting back into the swing of things with these two, but it's a start.

End of season 8, usual fair, cabin!fic, S/J, one-shot.

_Penguin's Challenge No33: Your heart is free, have the courage to follow it ~ Braveheart_

He had told them he was coming here for a week, to spend time in his element before heading off to a completely different life in the capital. He had told them that he didn't want to be disturbed for a couple of days. He had told them he was happy about all the changes that were happening. He had told them it was a good thing they were scattering to the winds.

He lied.

They were all good things, of course. It was genuinely the right time for a change, and it was definitely time for him to pass on the torch and let younger, fresher faces fill the battlefield in his place. They had earned the right to be happy. _I want to be happy._

And that was the problem.

He knew what he _really_ wanted.

Apparently so did she.

She followed him up to the country, both of them making the days-long journey alone, leaving her brother in the Springs in the wake of the funeral; leaving his friend to explain the breakup.

He was sitting on his dock, in a flimsy deck chair, beer in hand, when she walked up from behind him and sat down by his feet, dangling her legs over the end of the dock. Her shoes were already off- he had heard her remove them when she was still on the grass. He hadn't turned around, because he'd know that engine and that gait anywhere, and she hadn't said a word when she approached him, her steps lazy and deliberate, her breathing just audible.

She slumped down onto the dock, three days early, and leaned her head against his leg, like it was the most practised thing in the world; like they'd been doing this for years. _Maybe we have._

He rested his hand in her hair, the other still clutching his beer, and he didn't pretend not to know what this meant, that she'd travelled up here alone and early; that she had come and sit by him and leaned on him and sighed when he touched her.

She knew what she really wanted too, and that made him let out a long, slow breath, closing his eyes for a moment and pursing his lips. He put his beer down on the deck, lest he spill it all over himself.

"It really is beautiful" she said, softly, for his ears only, her eyes obviously focused out on the water, her feet swirling lighting against the surface. They stayed like that for what seemed like an hour. It was probably closer to a few minutes, but time measured in heartbeats always seems longer.

"Sam" he whispered. His hand didn't move.

She removed her feet from the water and stood up, finally turning to face him. She stood there, jeans rolled to the knee, feet wet, hair slightly dishevelled, eyes clear, stance firm.

He squinted against the light and looked at her, taking in what he could. He met her gaze and held it; she looked like a thousand different emotions at once, and he didn't know how to deal with that, so he said nothing and hoped she'd have the courage.

She raised her chin just a fraction, her eyes becoming glassy, her fist clenching by her side. He braced for the oncoming storm. She bent at the waist, her hands going on his cheeks as though to anchor them, her eyes never looking away, her breath whispering against his lips. He was a little bit shocked, but he didn't move away, and he didn't move closer. _Do it_.

"I'm done pretending like this doesn't matter" she said, softly, clearly.

There was only one response that seemed to match her bravery; that seemed worthy of a confession that could have only been monumental.

He lifted a hand to her face, cold from when he'd been holding his beer, and cupped her cheek, fingers playing over her ear and just below it. His other hand came up to hold her hand against his cheek. _Never let me go_.

He closed the few inches between them and kissed her.

She sighed. His grip on her tightened, never releasing as he stood up, they're height now making him the taller one. He wrapped his arms around her, her arms coming up around his neck. He walked them back from the edge of the dock, towards the house, the sounds of insects across the woods signalling the beginning of dusk.

When they finally broke, only for a moment, she was smiling. So was he. They were happy.

_Such brave little soldiers._


End file.
